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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29336748">our little corner of the world</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account'>orphan_account</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hetalia: Axis Powers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 12:02:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,014</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29336748</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Amidst the bustling world, Arthur and Francis spend a quiet evening together, tucked away in a little corner of Paris.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>England/France (Hetalia)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>our little corner of the world</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>October, 1968</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was not long before eleven o’clock that half the bottles of wine and boxes of cigarettes had been consumed. Indeed, Arthur was lifting his- third? Fourth? Tenth? cigarette - to his lips, feeling the subtle heat against his skin, where Francis’ hands had been only a few moments prior. As he waited for the man in question to retrieve another </span>
  <em>
    <span>bouteille de vin, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Arthur stared at the Parisian sunset, the room awash with its orange glow; how beautiful this country was, the safety he felt in Francis’ little flat, tucked away from the outside world, and how even in a thousand years he would never admit his reverence for the place.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s certainly not the best but, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Château Latour...</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Francis glanced up at Arthur’s rather disappointed face. “Well, we’ve gone through all the good bottles, mon cher.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Better than nothing, I suppose,” Arthur grunted. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As Francis slumped down on the sofa beside him, Arthur took to twirling the man’s hair in between his fingers, noticing a grey hair amongst his blond curls. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I really am getting on in the years, hm?” Francis said. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t say that; I’m not far behind.” Arthur took a sip of the wine, grimaced at the taste, and continued. “We’ve still got a few centuries left in us.” Francis laughed softly, reminiscent of days long gone on ruined battlefields - black, ashy, deserted - where they were the only ones left. And as they stood on opposite sides, on the brink of collapse, Arthur would laugh, telling him he expected better next time - and Francis, too, would call him a rotten old goat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And what are you reminiscing about, you old goat?” Francis poured them both more glasses as Arthur picked up his book. “Pirate days? Perhaps you’d like me to bury a treasure chest for you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, but I’d happily get my sword and ram it down your throat, </span>
  <em>
    <span>mon ami,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Arthur replied mockingly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Charming as ever, dear.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur lifted another cigarette to his lips. The small blaze was warm against his skin for a few moments, before he passed it to Francis. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This is a poor habit,” Francis grunted, collapsing back against the sofa, following the wisps of smoke with his eyes before it faded into nothing. Arthur replied something about it being best not to think about these things too much. “Anyway- You came here to look at the beauty of Paris, no? La tour Eiffel? Le musée du Louvre?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I came here for a spot of tea. And some good wine. Although it’s not brilliant - mine is certainly better.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The numerous swords you’ve wounded me with hurt less than that comment, Arthur!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My apologies,” he replied sarcastically. “Would you light another candle? I don’t want to sit in the dark.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They sat in silence for many moments - silence was rare nowadays, and being able to enjoy the quietness with someone else was even rarer. Arthur watched the orange flicker of the candlelight. It glowed softly. In their moments of quiet they had joined hands, how they didn’t know - it didn’t matter here. And so together they sat, hand in hand, Arthur feeling the rise and fall of Franics’ pulse, the edge of his bones and knuckles, the coarseness in his skin, the cold of a metal band around one finger.  Francis was staring at him with a solemn - sad, almost - gaze, and the pit in Arthur’s stomach grew once more so much so that he could hardly keep his thoughts still. He focused on the music. The red blaze dyed Francis’ face a vivid colour, highlighting his cheekbones, red cuts and marks, shadows dancing on his cheeks as the fire rose and fell, flickering. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Quand il me prend dans ses bras...</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gentle song filled the room. “Where did you get this scar from?” Arthur asked quietly. He ran his thumb against Francis’ cheek, over a mark from long ago.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Il me parle tout bas...</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just… A fight, or something, I had, I think. It…” Francis whispered. He paused - feeling Arthur’s fingers run over his lips. “It was a long time ago…” Francis finally breathed out. “I think it was you, actually.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh- I remember. 1783.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I won, didn’t I?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t remind me...It’s embarrassing,” Arthur laughed lightly. He placed a soft kiss on Francis’ lips, feeling his smile against his own lips.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Je vois la vie en rose.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They stayed like that for a moment; only before an abrupt pit of dread sunk in Arthur’s stomach. “My boss… I should be back home. Working,” murmured Arthur. Despite this, he leant into Francis’ chest. He had already stayed long enough. But Francis’ tired, low voice rested against his ears, a hand against his cheek, warm breath against his skin - Why did he have to leave?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That doesn’t matter now. Not here.” Francis whispered. They sat, together, still, for what felt like years. It was quiet; still. The world outside was bustling and busy, his home was infested with masses of paperwork and demands and useless interns and angry bosses - here, he had peace. Arthur had Francis, the warmth of his chest and the comfort of their embrace. He had cigarette after cigarette without a care in the world. He had the heat of cherry wine sitting in his chest. He had the soft hum of quiet music, the low buzz of a few cars driving below. Everything was still. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sun was beginning to break over the horizon, the record player was still turning, and the pair were still very much awake. Arthur remained slouched against the couch as Francis stood on the balcony, watching kitchen lights slowly turn on and cars begin to rumble. He stood with a sort of quiet adoration, Arthur thought. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Today, he had to leave. </span>
  <span>Tomorrow they would go to work. They would argue and bicker and argue some more as was the usual. And Arthur - no, England - would mock his </span>
  <em>
    <span>accent Français </span>
  </em>
  <span>and France would call him a bitter old man. But on some nights - some silent, hidden evenings - Arthur and Francis would be able to share some quiet moments together.</span>
</p>
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